Moments in Time
by lamentomori
Summary: A collection of random moments in time between two best friends. Warnings: 7Sins Continuity, 2nd person Colt PoV, Implied Slash (Colt/Punk), Profanity.
1. Jumpin' Jeff Farmer

_Warnings: 7Sins Continuity, 2nd person Colt PoV, Implied Slash (Colt/Punk), Profanity. No actual written fanfiction is referenced in this. - Copious author's notes at the end, feel free to read them. :)_

* * *

"Punkers, sit down." You grab his sleeve and stop his pacing. If he's going to read fanfiction on the podcast, he's going to have to actually read the damn stuff, not try to wear a hole in your damn carpet. "What's up with you anyway?" You throw an arm around his shoulders, hauling him closer and feeling his head flop onto your shoulder.

"Nothing, well, no, _nothing_." You look at him. "NOTHING, Cabana. C'mon, get on with it." You shrug and open the website.

"Where do you think wrestling is?" You possibly should have thought this through better or at least tried to Google the wrestling section.

"TV Shows?" He mutters, tucking his legs up, leaning against you more heavily. You click TV shows and feel him tense beside you.

"What?" You glance at the top of his head.

"Why is Glee first and Supernatural second?" He sounds mildly pissed off.

"Uh, no idea Punkers." You mutter, squeezing his shoulder.

"Have these people never heard of the alphabet? It should be A's first! Not fucking Glee." Okay, your best friend is one of those moods, you can see this going so horribly so quickly.

"Ah-ha, look, it's in order of how many, uh, _stories_ there are written about it!" You feel quite proud for working that out and click the little W, assuming that if wrestling is in here, it'll be under that.

"Not here." Punkers mutters after a few seconds. "Who the fuck is writing Waltons fanfiction? Click it! I wanna see!" He demands, you shake your head and do as he asks. "What's the highest rating?" He asks after the page loads.

"Uh." You click the little button marked _filters_ and up pops a menu. "M."

"Click it!" He sounds gleeful, squirms so that his arms are wrapped around your waist and his legs tucked up Indian style, his too pointy chin digging into your shoulder slightly. "Rape? In the Waltons? Urgh, that is just plain wrong."

"Yup, back?" He nods and you click the back button till you're on the TV shows main listing page again. "S?"

"Why?" He asks you.

"Sports entertainment?" He groans but doesn't argue.

"Saved by the Bell, Scrubs, Spin City, Sports Night. No Sports Entertainment. Where next, Cabana?" You shrug and come back to the top page. The list of sub-genres isn't too helpful really. "Miscellaneous?"

"May as well." You say clicking it. "Ah-ha!

"Thirty-five thousand. Fuck me." He mutters.

"Later, gotta get this intro done first." You grin at him and turn to give him a quick peck on the nose.

"Fuck you!" He snaps.

"Maybe." He bites your ear and you're sorely tempted to return the favour but wisely decide against it.

"So?" He starts but doesn't finish, you click the filters button, getting the little pop-up menu again. "Rating?" He asks after staring at the screen for a while.

"M, of course." You reply. If you're going to do this, you're going to do it properly!

"Characters?" He definitely sounds nervous.

"Me! My podcast, I should get to be in it." You tell him firmly. "And I guess you; I mean you're reading it after all."

"Never in my life, have I wanted to see the phrase zero results, more than now." He mutters, there aren't many results but there are more than you'd like. You scroll through, clicking one at random and start reading. You get as far as story you shoving his cock into story Punkers without any kind of lube, wincing at the thought of the pain little story Punk must be in before clicking back. He's tense beside you, his arms squeezing you tightly, painfully almost, you'd _never_ do that to him. You stroke his arm softly, brushing your lips over his hair. He still seems tense though, so you try words.

"You know I'd-"

"CAN YOU FUCKING BELIEVE THE TYPOS?" You twist in his arms to look at him. "How many times can you fuck up the English language in one sentence?"

"Uh." You're not quite sure what to say to that, he's still ranting indignant about split infinitives and misused commas and you have no idea what the hell he's talking about. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea, Punkers." You say mildly, trying to pry his ever tightening arms from around you. "How bout we do something else? Hmm, something with less homowhatits," You manage to get him to loosen his grip a little and breathe a sigh of relief.

"How about Jumpin Jeff Farmer's promo?" He says eventually.

"Great idea, excellent idea!" You close the tab and open a new Google one instead, typing in Farmer's name, trying to find a transcript of the worst promo ever.

"Oh, Cabana." He says, his voice casually soft, as you scroll through pages of results.

"Hmm?" You turn to look at him, a lazily amused grin on his face.

"You ever try fucking me without lube, I'm shoving my foot up your ass."

* * *

_I have lots of random scenes that are never going to actually fit into a full story but I rather like so I figured, I'm awake, when I really should be asleep, may as well post my favourite of them in a little holdall fic header. Will be updated as and when I'm feeling insomniac. _

_I love fanfiction but what we do is rather silly and I love fics where the people we write about find it. No matter what you write, it's a creative expression of your love and admiration of the people you write about, from het to slash, to well-rounded, well researched fics to the trashy written in five minutes ones, OCs to kayfabe constructs, it's all a display of apperciation. I think sometimes, I am rather guilty, like all of us, of seeing the splinter in the eyes of other writers whilst failing to see the log in my own. Write well and write often my fellow wrestling fans, even if I don't read your stuff or even worse I do and I don't review (I'm sorry, I know I should review more, I'm a bad person but I'm working on it, promise!), I love knowing you're out there working hard to show your love for the guys and gals who bring us fantastic entertainment each and every week. I'll get off this soapbox now. :)_

_**Reviews are always good so you know, leave one in the box!**_

_Something you've always wanted someone to write for Punk and Cabana, or someone else even, lemme know and I take a stab at it. ;)_


	2. If you were gay

_Warnings: 7Sins Continuity, 2nd person Colt PoV, Implied Slash (Colt/Punk), Profanity._

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"Theoretically! I'm not saying you _have _to do it but if you were going to fuck a guy, who would it be?" Your friends are drunken assholes. When the _if you were going to fuck a guy who would you fuck_ question comes up, it's time to start rounding them up and heading home or something bad will happen. Usually some poor defenceless guy will piss Joe off and get himself fucked up, really you'd think people would take one look at Joe and run the other way but the amount to drunken idiots who think they can take him is unbelievable. "I mean, Cabana here!" Joe's arm is heavy as it's flung over your shoulders. "He's easy!" Punkers meets your eye, with a smirk. You don't think you entirely deserve that smirk; you've been _fucking_ for a while now, you think that being _easy_ should apply equally here. "He'd fuck Punk!" That causes Punkers to choke on his soda, coughing and getting slapped on the back by Ace. That's a very carefully guarded given, you've fucked Punkers repeatedly now, no one knows for sure but you're certain there's more than a little speculation on the exact depth of your friendship.

"So Cabana fucks Punk, I'd fuck Punk. Joe?" You've forgotten this guy's name, one of the local boys you've only just met, he's big, muscular and lucky to still be alive, given the death glare Punk is giving him. Punkers clearly does not approve of being the gay fuck of choice for the table.

"Punk, goes without saying. Ace?" Joe is smirking and Punkers looks down right indignant.

"Oh no, there is no way I'm listening to anymore of this bullshit! The only fucking you assholes are getting is off!" Punk downs his soda and storms out of the bar. The drunken idiots start laughing and you consider your options. You can try and calm down Punkers or stay here and watch them drink more. In the end, you're spared making the decision. Joe gets up to go to the bathroom and Ace slides into the booth beside you, a not quite as drunk as you had assumed.

"Go make sure your fellow reprobate isn't causing trouble somewhere else." You feel rather like you when you were a kid and your Dad would send you to check up on Gregg, as the younger brother you were expected to be a tattletale. You more often than not, lived up to the expectation. You think you're far more loyal to Punkers than you ever were to your own kin.

As you leave the bar, you hear Ace informing your assembled friends and random hangers-on, that you've gone to check on your wife. You're sure that Punkers would resent being referred to as your wife. He'd probably make some kind of insane case for being your husband or mistress and then go off on a tangent about what male mistresses are called. That isn't something you know and now that you've thought of it, it's mildly annoying not knowing. You'll need to ask him, king of words that he is, he'll know for sure.

Outside the bar, you consider your options once more. Left or right, which way is he most likely to have gone? You suppose left, right is back to the hotel and Punkers is a contrary creature by nature, why do what is expected and reasonable, when he can do something ridiculous instead.

"You following me, Cabana?" He's leaning against a lamppost a little further down the street from the bar and to the left, as you'd thought.

"Ace sent me to keep you out of trouble." You mutter, which really is a ludicrous idea, trouble is something you get into together. It's your default setting, causing trouble and then sneaking away to laugh at the fallout together.

"Old man's too drunk then." He starts walking away, then stops, turns to you with a smirk, waiting for you to catch him up and throws an arm around your shoulders when you do.

"Punkers, got a question for you." You turn to him; he looks over at you, confusion on his face.

"What?" His hand squeezes your shoulder, a lazy smirk spreading on his lips. You get the feeling this question is going to disappoint him.

"What's a male mistress called?"

* * *

_This was the original lead into to a different fic that got changed dramatically but I've always rather liked this scene... Not too sure why to be honest, it's just always pleased me. _

**Rebellecherry, ******littleone1389**: **_Thank you for the reviews! Unexpected but absolutely wonderful! Thank you! :3_

_**Reviews are always good so you know, leave one in the box!**_

_Something you've always wanted someone to write for Punk and Cabana, or someone else even, lemme know and I take a stab at it. ;)_


	3. Building Houses

_Warnings: 7Sins Continuity, 2nd person Colt PoV, Profanity, Well-rested insanity. _

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"You're actually serious?" O'Neil sounds desperately like she's trying to sound anything but exasperated. You think it's a losing battle, but you admire the effort. Dangerously well-rested Punk is not what she signed up for, and it's entirely what she's condemned herself into marrying. You can't say you feel sorry for her; she might not have signed up for this slightly manic, overly cheerful version of Punk, but it's the one she's got and she has to deal with it. Besides, more often than not she seems perfectly content to go along with her dork's insane plans. You're fairly sure she instigates some of them. They're a terrible influence on each other, well that's not quite true, they're kind of an excellent influence on each other, and the more you see them happy and married, the more you kind of want one of your own. Perhaps not an O'Neil, but the Cabana based equivalent. In all honesty, you're waiting for her to start fixing you up on dates with sexy nerdy chicks that have the AJ seal of approval, which will be lucky for the woman, cause getting the Punk seal of approval is difficult, if O'Neil's already stamped them as a-okay, he's not going to argue. He doesn't seem to have disagreeing with her in him, yet at least, and you can only hope the honeymoon period doesn't ever wear off, cause a fight between these two will be spectacular. Your floor will become home to Punk for a _long_ time should O'Neil get seriously pissed off with him.

"Course I'm serious!" He's grinning like an idiot, which is scarily normal for him these days, and looking at you for support. You're already certain that he's going to get it, but you attempt to look resolutely disapproving of his plan. "A tree house is an excellent idea! Right, Cabana?" It's an insane idea, and possibly illegal, you're pretty sure building houses in city owned trees is against the law. You can only hope he's bought a tree to build in, or planted one or something that doesn't involve potential arrests.

"I... Uh..." O'Neil looks over at you as well, her eyebrows raised, mouthing _no_. Punkers pulls his pathetic kicked puppy face and the battle is lost. You like O'Neil, but he's your _best_ friend, she doesn't stand a chance. Loyalty is a rare find in life, even more so if you meet thanks to wrestling, and both of you are _unwaveringly_ loyal to each other. "Do you have a tree picked out?" She scowls at you and you shrug, as Punk nods enthusiastically and leaves the room, his dorky grin still on his face. It was no contest really, you're literally incapable of saying no to him, it's kind of depressing how tightly wound around his finger you are.

"_Traitor! We're supposed to allies!" _She hisses at you, and you shrug again. It's not your fault, and you didn't see her saying no either. Really, at this rate, he's going to be completely spoiled by both of you, and you'll only have yourselves to blame. O'Neil's wearing an expression you're getting kind of used to, something that mixes annoyance, amusement and fondness. You and her have spent more time together, have instigated a weird games night where she kicks your ass at videogames, and you mourn a world where you're not eight years old and awesome at them. Punk is usually absent from these meetings, as though he's taken it upon himself to ensure you two spend some quality time together, and you think you are. You talk about all kinds of weird rambling crap, you've discussed all manner of random things; have shared many odd little stories. You think she'd be a fun guest to have on the podcast, but you're not too sure that the WWE would clear it. They're definitely not talking to you at the moment what with you being Punk's best friend and him quitting. It seems like sour grapes on their part, as though they want to punish as many people as possible for him walking away and looking good for it. There's something bitter and petty with them that makes you more than a little glad to have them wash their hands of you. You're not sure there's room in your life for people petty minded enough to edit posters with post-it notes. It's not like you _really_ need them anyways, sure, it'd be nice to have all that money behind you, but you're doing okay, you're busy if nothing else. Next month you're going back to the Fringe, an entire month without a night off is possibly foolhardy, but you're excited, and the venue is a step up, granted it's a tent but it's three times as big, which is something. You think O'Neil is encouraging him to spend as much time with you as possible before you skulk off to Scotland for a month. Mrs Punk is not subtle in her concerns over him being on his own for so long, because by then she'll be back at work, and even if she's not on a proper full time schedule, she'll be gone long enough for him to depress or bore himself into some kind of ludicrous trouble. This time last year, he'd been a mopey, miserable fucker, injured, tired and so very close to done. You remember him calling you from your apartment in a mood, but this year you think that he'll be calling her, probably, or you might be getting weird three way calls again like in India. You're not sure you're gonna mind all that much if that happens, you kind of enjoyed the weirdness of watching technology and Punk fight, whilst O'Neil joined you in laughing at him.

"_I'm always gonna take his side, O'Neil._" You mutter back, grinning at her easily, and he reappears, a roll of paper under his arm. He unfurls it across the counter top and smiling up at you both. She laughs softly, and bumps against your shoulder, hopping up to sit on a stool, a wry little smirk on her face. You can see her phone screen, can see that she's googling pre-made tree house kits. You'd been planning on doing that yourself, but seemingly great minds think alike, or at least fools who indulge Punkers seldom differ.

"So, these are the plans." He points at the paper, looking stupidly proud of himself. O'Neil glances at you, and you sigh, knowing full well, that his insane plans are going to be something you and her are going to have to bring to fruition. He's horrible at DIY, and it turns out she's pretty handy with a screwdriver. He places another piece of paper over the first, a devious little smile on his face that you recognise well, but haven't seen in years. The same little smile that he had as he went ganking, the same little smile he had when he'd handed you half a book's worth of casino slips, the same little smile that means he's planning something particularly no good. "_And _this is the nearest building sites for us to _acquire_ the materials."

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_**Reviews are always good so you know, leave one in the box!**_

_Something you've always wanted someone to write for Punk and Cabana, or someone else even, lemme know and I take a stab at it. ;)_


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